The Lords of Arden

by Helen Burton

  ‘Will you teach us a new dance?’ She clung to his arm.

  ‘It's too hot today, Rose Red. Where is your mother?’

  ‘In her bower. Beatrice saw you from the window and ran to tell her but she was angry. Perhaps she had hopes that it was father back from London, I don't know. Still, Agnes knows how to entertain young men.’

  ‘Does she indeed!’ Nicholas looked enquiringly at the elder girl, demure under his gaze.

  ‘Agnes is to be betrothed. The Lord of Edstone has asked for her for his spotty Philip, so she's learning to be a lady.’

  ‘Spotty Philip is a fortunate man,’ said Nicholas kindly. ‘Perhaps Lady Agnes would ask her mother if I may wait upon her and I think I have a bag of comfits for Beatrice somewhere.’ He turned to his saddle bag and Beatrice scuttled away with her sticky gift.

  ‘What have you brought for me?’ asked the Red Rose of Lapworth. ‘I still have Roly; no-one else has a monkey hereabouts.’

  Nicholas smiled. ‘Nothing so exotic this time, Rose-Red; a string of blue beads to match your eyes and here's one for Agnes if her betrothed will let her accept the gift of another man.’

  ‘Pooh!’ said Rose. ‘Spotty Philip will have a hard time preventing Agnes doing anything she has her mind on!’

  ‘Like her sister?’ grinned Nicholas, fastening the blue beads beneath the mantle of red hair which spread about her shoulders like floss silk. ‘Now run away into the garden, poppet, I have important topics to discuss with your lady mother.’

  Rose pulled a face, stood on tiptoe and jerked his head down to hers by his blond hair, kissing him full on the lips and then bounding away, calling for Agnes.

  Nicholas ducked beneath the lintel and moved through the darkness of the manor house and up to the solar. He opened the door and stepped inside, closing it firmly behind him. Christine was standing with her back to the window sill and the sunlight; he could not see her face.

  ‘You are mad, mad to come here! You must leave at once, Nicholas!’ Her voice was unsteady. He moved towards her.

  ‘Christine, who has seen me arrive?’ he began.

  ‘My daughters know you are here and will chatter of it.’

  ‘No, I will see to that, I'll promise them some trinket, make it all seem like a game.’

  ‘Oh, Nicky, you think you can buy anyone but I won't have my children involved. You'll extract no promises, I'll not countenance it!’ She was flushed with anger now and pacing the room, twisting at the folds of her soft blue gown.

  Durvassal shrugged his shoulders. ‘I may as well stay now I'm here, it can't make things any worse. If Warwick is back from London Lady Kate will say she has sent me off on an errand. She'll think of something.’

  ‘Since when has Katherine Beauchamp offered friendship without looking for return?’ asked Christine sharply.

  Nicholas laughed. ‘Jealous, My Lady? Are you going to risk sending me back to Warwick or will you open the door to your chamber where it will be cool and dark and where I can always leap out of the window if it becomes necessary?’

  ‘You'd break your neck!’ laughed Christine. ‘The fig tree would never hold you. Where are the girls?’

  ‘Safely in the garden.’ He ushered her before him into the master bedroom. The fields of Lapworth stretched gently undulating as far as the Umberslade woods and the green scents of summer assaulted the senses; there were bright butterflies fluttering in and out over the sill. Durvassal turned from the green glare back into the darkness and took Christine into his arms. There was an added spice in the thought of taking a woman in her husband's bed which made up for the fact that she was unresponsive, tense with guilt. He lay on his back, looking up at the light-dappled ceiling.

  ‘Which side of the bed does Hugh prefer?’

  ‘You are a bastard, Nicky!’ Lady Brandstone sat up and pulled her mantle about her shoulders, suddenly disconcerted by his hungry green gaze and laughing mouth. She ran a finger over the dark golden hairs upon his chest and slapped his mouth lightly. ‘I almost wish Hugh would catch us, it would give me an odd satisfaction to see him trounce you.’

  Durvassal laughed. ‘It would be a miracle if he could. As for you, My Lady, it is a little late to have found a conscience. What in God's name is that! Someone at the door?’

  Christine sighed. ‘It's only Rose Red's monkey, climbed in through the window and scratching about in the corner. It came in minutes ago but you were too much occupied to notice. I'd prefer you to keep to a more conventional line in gifts if gifts you must bring.’ She was back again to mundane topics. ‘You must leave, this wasn't a good idea and you are never, never to come here again whilst Hugh is away. Are you listening? I shall not receive you.’

  Minutes later she escorted him downstairs and with Agnes and Beatrice on either side watched him mount his sorrel mare.

  ‘Where is Rose Red? Isn't she coming to say goodbye?’

  Agnes said, ‘She rode off on her pony.’

  Beatrice added, ‘She was mad with Roly. He got into the great chamber and you know how angry mother gets about his fleas. Rose had to climb the fig tree after him and I think she tore her dress. Roly came down on his own anyway; he always does.’

  A look passed between Durvassal and Christine.

  ‘She shouldn't go galloping off alone like that,’ he said carefully. ‘I think I should go after her, Lady Brandstone.’

  ‘No, there's no need. I'm sure you are anxious to be away to Warwick. Give my regards to your mother and father if you should ride over to Spernall and…’

  ‘I'll bring her back,’ said Durvassal and spurred his mount in the direction pointed out by Agnes.

  Christine went back to her room and sat upon the bed, shivering in spite of the heat.

  Durvassal tracked down Rose upon her poor, winded, little pony, jumped from his own mount and swung her from the saddle.

  ‘Let me go, sir, you forget who I am!’

  ‘What is it, Rose Red?’

  ‘Lady Rose, if you please, and take your beads back with you!’ She struggled with the clasp, red in the face with pent-up anger. Durvassal put up a hand to help her but she slapped it away. ‘Don't touch me, filthy adulterer. How could you, under father's roof, in father's bed!’ She burst into tears. He took her thin shoulders between long fingers.

  ‘Oh Rose Red, if you were older you'd understand.’

  ‘Oh, I understand. Do you think me a cretin? All those presents and games and compliments. You used us! Oh, Agnes and I were fools not to see but Beata, Beata is seven years old and you used her so that you could fornicate with her mother!’ She was hitting him with her small fists in time to the words.

  Durvassal laughed. ‘My, what a big vocabulary these days. I'm sorry, Rose Red, you were never intended to find out, but for God's sake keep your mouth shut, like a good little girl.’

  Rose tossed her head. ‘If I'm silent it won't be for you or for her, it will be for father because he loves her, he's always loved her.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘Yes, admit defeat, sweetheart. If you spun him a yarn about a man in your mother's bed and you playing Peeping Tom up the fig-tree, you'd probably be sent to bed with a sore bottom and quite right too. Now, onto your pony and ride home or that's what you'll get from me.’ He tapped his riding crop suggestively against his knee.

  The Red Rose of Lapworth was speechless but her reflexes were not impaired. She snatched the crop from his hand, laid open his cheek and leapt for her pony, forcing the beast back towards the manor house.

  ~o0o~

  There was no escaping supper in the great hall at Warwick and no disguising his slashed cheek. Nicholas Durvassal sat below the high table with Warwick's remaining knights and squires and Katherine's ladies and tried to ignore the ill-concealed amusement and speculation. They rose from table when the countess left the dais and swept the length of the hall, towards the steps to the solar; she snapped her fingers for attendance and Lady A, passing so close by Durvassal that he caught the scent of the per
fume she used, put up a white beringed finger and let it slide briefly over his scarred face. Then she laughed softly and was gone.

  ~o0o~

  Warwick at last came home to his midland fastness in the velvety July dusk when summer stars were pricked out upon the soft back-drop of the sky and the forest land was closing in, thick and dark, on either side of his weary cavalcade. The last ragged rooks, calling once, disappeared into the elms as Thomas Beauchamp led the way over the fourteen arches of the bridge with the castle rising black before him. The Avon ran red with the last of the sunset and already the lamps were lit down in the town, glowing dull orange in the higgledy-piggledy houses. Up in the solar, where the cressets flared from iron sconces and the smoke rose to darken the carved and gilded ceiling bosses, Lady Kate, gowned in garnet satin powdered over with silver roses, patted her chestnut hair in its bejewelled crespine and sank onto a low stool before the fire, all limpid acquiescence at the coming of her lord; her ladies melted away.

  Warwick supped quietly with Katherine and sped away to inspect his defences and, where necessary, to chide his garrison. It was good to stand upon the walls in the blanket of dark, looking out above the creaming foam of the river where it fell over the weir, and across the ragged tops of the Arden woodland and to smell the greenness of sap and resin, blossom and earth mould. Then, he turned his back on the darkness, to see the glimmer of candle and cresset wavering behind tower windows, smoking beneath the arch of the gatehouse, streaming from the hand of a hurrying page.

  ‘You are welcome home, My Lord,’ said Nicholas Durvassal, attending his master upon his night-time ramblings. ‘The old castle seems to sleep easier when you are in residence.’

  ‘Indeed, Nicholas, is that so? And you, do you rest easier for my presence?’

  ‘Should I not, My Lord?’ Durvassal stood in the breeze from the river, his hair blowing white about his narrow face, the starlight limning his cheek bones.

  ‘That depends upon the plots and ploys encompassed in my absence.’

  ‘My lord, your thoughts are unworthy. I hold to my loyalties.’

  ‘I don't question your loyalty to me; it goes hand in hand with that most important loyalty of all - self-interest. But when the Cat is away up to London to look at a Queen, what does King Rat?’ Warwick put out a hand and tapped at his squire's cheek. ‘Have you a confession to make to me? Did my admirable Sir John decide belatedly that his son needed a touch of discipline? No? Then perhaps a brawl with a drover? No, hardly. You don't acknowledge the existence of a species below esquire, do you, Nicholas?’

  ‘You mock me, My Lord!’

  ‘I deduce a woman in the case, frail, beautiful and naturally wildly in love with that angel's face.’

  ‘A mere dalliance, sir.’

  Warwick had him by the shoulders back hard against the merlons of the cat-walk, the dark face, at that moment uncannily like Black Guy in one of his famed rages, was thrust close to Durvassal's own but the young man had learnt long ago not to flinch away from his master's anger, it was a private test of his endurance.

  ‘I hope you lie, Durvassal. To take another man's wife is a game of chance to be played for love or for money but for no baser reason. And do you think I do not have my informants at Lapworth? You are unusually naive. My body squires, like Caesar's wife, should be above suspicion. If you must have affairs I do not want to know about them. Even Katherine seems to be privy to the scandal.’

  Durvassal said, ‘The Countess's spies are all but equal to your own, My Lord. I should look to it.’

  Warwick glanced at him thoughtfully. ‘Naturally, Katherine is a Mortimer, I would expect that. I do not expect that you should imply criticism of the Countess, to tattle of a wife's doings to her husband. You talk like a piqued girl, Nicky but in word or deed you will never best Lady Kate and her Amazons. She is the White Wolf's daughter; she will go her way as I am pleased to go mine. Have you any more tales to tell?’

  ‘It seems I waste my breath!’

  ‘Don't sulk, boy. Lead me to my chamber. I wish for the tawny bed gown with the libbard trim and I will not need you to sleep across the door. You may relinquish your privilege for tonight and Nicholas, you should learn greater control over that angel's face. I detect something approaching a smirk. Do you want the other side of your face slashed to match?’

  ‘No, My Lord. I am sorry, My Lord and I am glad you're home. It is dull when you're away - mostly,’ he added ingenuously, thinking of Christine. He pushed open the door to the Earl's bed chamber where a low fire glowed even on such a fine summer evening and the shadows danced about them. Durvassal went to the long chest beneath the window and took out the tawny robe edged with libbard, shaking out the folds and placing it across the bed in readiness before turning to help Beauchamp to disrobe. When the hard, muscled body was completely naked, bronze in the firelight, the earl snapped his fingers for his robe and slipped his arms through the hanging fur-edged sleeves. Katherine swept in from the adjoining tower in a white linen smock, fine and clinging, her thick chestnut hair falling down over her shoulders onto her full breasts. Durvassal conceded that it could be no chore for the earl to father his children upon her with regularity. Katherine, to whom Nicholas was as much a part of the bedroom scene as the furniture, waved a hand in his direction.

  ‘You have finished with Durvassal, haven't you, Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, you may leave us, Nicholas.’

  Durvassal bowed, almost low enough to be servile and said, ‘Would it be in order to wish you a restful night, My Lord, My Lady?’ He let his green eyes flicker from one to the other and beat a hasty retreat.

  Chapter Eleven

  April - 1343

  Peter de Montfort, lightly cloaked, was lingering in the black pit which was the stairwell of the Mellent Tower. He heard the ring of the postern and the scraping of the timber baulk driving home across it. He moved out onto the flags of the middle ward. One of his own squires slipped past him, wraith-like, unrecognisable in the dark shelter of the wall.

  Peter called out, ‘John, stop skulking in the shadows like a moulting fox!’ A light footfall brought his son to his side.

  ‘I never skulk; I have nothing to hide. What's the trouble, sir?’

  ‘Did you leave the sally-port open?’ asked his father sharply.

  ‘You know I did not. You must almost have tripped over the lad who opened up for me.’

  ‘That,’ said Peter, ‘is what I find so annoying. You keep my squires up all the hours God sends, dancing attendance, and I find them surly in the mornings, too tired to keep upright in the saddle. It's high time I found you a wife and cut down on these nocturnal wanderings.’ He led the way into the tower, climbing the stairs by touch and accustomed usage, without the aid of a torch. John followed obediently. ‘You could then,’ puffed Peter, ‘take your pleasures in your own bed and stop disrupting my household.’ They had reached the top of the stairs and Peter's chamber.

  ‘Am I to come in for a lecture or shall I say goodnight?’ enquired John equably. Peter was lighting the cressets with a brand from the low fire. It was clammy indoors in spite of an afternoon's sunshine. The chamber walls were painted grass green and sprinkled with gold stars. John shuddered at his father's taste in decor.

  Peter caught his expression. ‘What was it tonight, drinking or whoring or both? I like to take a fatherly interest.’

  John de Montfort had drunk more than was outwardly obvious. He shut the door behind him and leant back against it. Beside his father's bulk he cut a tall, slender figure, auburn hair tousled by the night breeze, violet eyes unfocused. His surcote of ruby velvet over a rose-coloured jupon was exquisite but he wore it with a careless elegance and his linen shirt was unlaced at the neck revealing the light golden skin of his throat beneath; the enamelled belt, slung low about his hips, must have cost someone a king's ransom.

  ‘She was here again,’ said Peter, ‘this afternoon.’

  John said nothing, his face a mask of filial politeness.r />
  ‘That girl, the one who is dunning me for support of your by-blows!’

  ‘Have a heart,’ said John, ‘only one. Incidentally, it isn’t mine.’

  ‘Ha!’ barked Peter, ‘haven’t got it in you, I suppose.’ He raked his son’s slender length from top to toe with what could only be called a leer. The boy’s face coloured up beneath the persistent freckles. Peter was triumphant; it was hard to find this elder son of his out of countenance.

  John said equably, ‘I always thought it was necessary for the father to be there at conception. But then, my sex education was limited.’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ said Peter lamely.

  ‘I do. You took me down to the Mews where it was so dark I wouldn’t be able to see how embarrassed you were. You coughed and muttered for a full half hour and that was it.’

  ‘This girl,’ said Peter.

  ‘Whom I have never spoken to before, never seen before – let alone got a leg over – are we talking Immaculate Conception? Honestly, sir, if you, out of charity, pay her off, you will have every unmarried mother in the shire clamouring at your door. You could open a crèche.’

  ‘You’re not lying to me, boy?’

  ‘Of course I’m not lying. Why would I?’

  Peter grunted. ‘I might believe you if your morality was never suspect.’

  John was not a redhead with a temper, he was too indolent, but he had drunk far too much. ‘Your reproachful tone isn’t convincing, sir,’ his words were vaguely slurred, ‘considering that you got me on a whore!’ He supposed he deserved the blow which knocked his head back sharply against the unyielding oak behind him with an alarming crack and split his lower lip.